


To Be or Not To Be... Wait, No, Wrong Story.

by Nolesr1



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Alfred is a sassy lassy, Alfred is pan and biracial, Alfred loves everyone, All the notes, And smut at the beginning, Arthur is a dick, F/F, F/M, FrUK, FrUs - Freeform, France is female, Francis is Marianne, Gen, He is also a soldier, Human Names Used, I can't think of anything else right now, I should not be starting something when I haven't finished other stories, M/F, M/M, Marianne knows what she wants, Multi, Nyo! France, There is language, Wooh! Semper Fi~, Wooo!, definitely America/England tensions, oh well, so warning, stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7931989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nolesr1/pseuds/Nolesr1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred...</p><p>Is in love. Or lust. He's definitely infatuated with Mari. The one thing that he's not expecting, though, is the arrival of Mari's Ex. That's kind of where Alfred's troubles start because... Well, mostly because the guy's an asshole. An attractive af one, but one nonetheless. Now, Alfred has to worry about school, keeping Mari interested in him and not her Ex, *not* falling for Kirkland, and Military, well, everything. It's a heavy order, but Alfred can do it. He's a Marine after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be or Not To Be... Wait, No, Wrong Story.

Alfred releases a breathy laugh, soon followed by a head-thrown-back, deep throated moan as, above him, Mari moves, rolling her hips in a way that drives Alfred crazy.

Around the two, the quiet darkness of the room envelopes them like a warm blanket, adding to the atmosphere. The 19 year-old American eyes the woman above him with equal measures of lust and affection, gripping her knees with enough force that it will bruise, though Mari had repeatedly assured Alfred that, yes, she enjoys the small bruises and no, they don’t hurt.

Clad in nothing but moonlight, Mari hovers above Alfred, both of her hands on either side of Alfred’s waist, tightly clutching the satin sheets as she moves, slowly finding a familiar rhythm. Alfred stares up at her in wonder, amazed despite himself that something as astonishingly… well, _astonishing_ as Mari is here, with him.

Alfred suddenly has the desire the kiss her and he does so, pushing himself onto his forearm and cupping her jaw, brushing his thumb along the smooth curve of her cheek and beneath her lips. Despite the fact that they’re, well, in the throes of passion, Alfred hesitates inches away from Mari’s lips, his eyes flicking to hers as he silently asks permission.

Instead of answering—or as an answer—Mari bridges those few inches and kisses Alfred.

When Mari kisses him, it’s something that he can honestly say that he’s never experienced before. When Mari kisses him, it’s not lip-on-lips, at least not at first. It starts as the barest brush of tongue against Alfred closed lips, ]followed by the now-familiar pressure of her soft lips against his own; it’s the feeling of her releasing the satin sheets to cradle the back of Alfred’s head, her fingers curled around his close cropped hair, curling her fingers around fuzz as she tries to grab a handful; it’s the graceful way her hand slowly slides to cup the back of his neck while her other hand traces the lines of his cheeks and jaw, hardened by months of heavy military training; when Mari kisses him, she immediately takes control from a more than willing Alfred, her head slowly tilting, her tongue brushing against Alfred’s teeth and Alfred’s tongue before she pulls back with a nip at Alfred’s top lip; the way she hovers above him, like a guardian angel.

It’s all an experience that he can never get enough of. He can’t get enough of the heavenly vanilla scent of the bakery that she loves; of the fire that seems to burn beneath her bronze skin; the elegant dark brown curls atop her head; the striking blue of her eyes that can either melt his heart or send shivers up his spine. In essence, Alfred realizes, he is unequivocally and irreversibly smitten or in love or in lust.

He can’t tell right now.

What he can tell, though, as his hand slides up her knee, to her thigh, up her hip and along the curve of her waist, to her shoulder blade and then to cradle her neck in his undeserving, calloused hand, is that he can live a hundred, a thousand years and never come close to finding someone like Mari.

Like an offering to archaic deity, Alfred leans forward, his nose brushing against her collarbone, his mouth, tongue, kisses trailing down, down, down, earning a lewd, almost-purr from Mari. Alfred’s lips halt their advances south and begin trailing west before he begins kissing up, up, up, burying his face in the juncture of her neck, loving the warm scent of what he’s come to associate with Mari. Nothing but _Mari, Mari, Mari, Mari_ —

With his face still buried in Mari’s neck, he attempts to stifle his giggle as Mari’s hand pushes against Alfred’s side, an action that causes Mari to lean away from Alfred as the thumb of her other hand slowly, methodically brushes back and forth against Alfred’s temple. Even in the dark, Alfred knows the amusement in Mari’s features.

Despite how much Alfred tries to stifle his giggle, he fails to do so and finally pulls away so that he can look Mari in the eyes. He pouts as she rests her elbow against Alfred’s shoulder,

“Was that necessary?” He asks. Mari snickers as she raises a finger of the arm resting on Alfred’s shoulder to brush against Alfred’s nose. Alfred wrinkles said nose at the sensation.

“You are still learning, _mon beau_.”

“I know,” Alfred grumbles as he falls back to lean against his forearm. Above him, Mari sensually brushes against Alfred, though Alfred knows that she’s trying to get comfortable whilst a fully erect dick brushes against her. Granted, with his boxers on, the sensation of clothing, arousal, and skin rubbing against each other is more distracting for _Alfred_ , but, hey.

“You are getting better,” Mari informs him fondly as she moves to wrap both of her arms around Alfred’s neck. Alfred returns the gesture by holding one hand against Mari’s waist while the other one holds them up. Mari wrinkles her nose and continues, “there is still more spit than what is strictly necessary and you need to work on your dominating traits.”

Alfred deflates a little at that and glances up at Mari sadly, which in turn earns him a small chuckle as she brushes her thumb against Alfred’s downturned lips. “Of course,” she coos, “Perhaps you are more submissive; there is nothing wrong with that! Personally, I enjoy this, but if you are still experimenting it is all right. My ex-beau preferred topping as often as he could but—“

“Yeah, yeah,” Alfred grumbles half-heartedly at the mention of Mari’s ex. Alfred pouts and buries his head in Mari’s shoulder, earning him a small laugh as she tugs at Alfred’s hair, trying to prompt Alfred to raise his head. When he finally does, Mari leans forward and kisses the tip of Alfred’s nose.

“Do not be jealous, _mon chou._ Arthur also enjoyed his moments of voyeurism and though I did not entirely _disagree_ with his interests—“

“Yeah, yeah,” Alfred grumbles as he leans back. He studies Mari, partially petulant and partly curious. “You know, I’m really curious that you can say voy—vur—Froyder—“

“Voyeurism?”

“Mhmm. Yeah, that. It’s completely astonishing that you can say that perfectly, but you struggle with the word ‘s’more.’

“hmph. Smoes are stupid.”

“I disagree,” Alfred announces impishly. “I think _s’mores_ are great.” Alfred makes sure to exaggerate the word as much as he can, earning him an even more annoyed look from Mari. In retaliation, Mari very pointedly brushes against Alfred’s hard-on, earning a whimper from Alfred.

“I find it astonishing that you can sit and mock me when you are here, sporting _this,_ which looks very painful,” Mari practically purrs as she leans back, this time directly sitting on Alfred’s… lap.

Alfred whimpers even more and falls back, arching his hips to try and get more friction and loving the sensation of the satin against his bare back. “Endless patience,” Alfred practically whimpers as he watches the graceful, well, _everything_ of Mari above him. “I d-dare you to try and hold a c-conversation with Aphrodite sitting on top of you.”

In response, Mari throws her head back and laughs her glorious, deep-throated laugh that resonates throughout her entire body. Alfred loves that laugh because it’s beautiful and deep, a throaty sound that seems to reverberate off the very core of Mari’s being.

It’s music, plain and simple.

“I dare you to sit with Adonis writhing beneath you,” Mari purrs as she leans forward, placing her arms on either side of Alfred, inches away from his head. She hovers above Alfred, casting shadows. He feels almost trapped.

He loves it.

With very slow, very precise movements, Alfred turns his head to the side and brushes his nose against the smooth, bronzed skin of the underside of Mari’s wrist before placing a feather-light kiss against the rapidly beating pulse at her and then looks back at her, up, up, up.

The lesson continues, though Alfred quickly loses track of how long it is.

…….

Mari is four years older than Alfred. To this day, Alfred still doesn’t quite understand how he managed to get this far with someone like Mari.

The two had met outside a bar, one that Alfred couldn’t even enter at the tender age of 18 and Mari had been crying. Gracefully. Whilst making blubbering sounds. Mari is adamant that there wasn’t any blubbering, but Alfred disagrees.

Anyways, Alfred had then proceeded to take the sobbing—sorry, _crying_ woman home to her to bed. When the woman had nearly bludgeoned herself twice getting out of bed, Alfred had decided to camp out on the floor of her room until the next day, where the woman had woken up at God-awful thirty in the morning to puke.

Alfred had all but run back to his training base, ended up being late, and had also wound up having to run extra laps. And push-ups. And sit-ups. And jumping jacks. And… yeah.

He had been sore by the next day.

The next weekend, Mari had somehow managed to get ahold of Alfred and had invited him to dinner as thanks for helping her. To this day, Alfred still has no idea how she even managed to get any of his contact info. In fact, it’s somewhat scary what this woman can do.

Alfred, half expecting some cheap McDonalds joint, had spent an awkward two-and-a-half hours in baggy jeans and a holey sweater in a 5-star restaurant.

6 months later, the two wound up sleeping together. From there, the rest is history.

Alfred forces his mind to return to the present, where he’s learning really interesting algorithms and formulas in a class paid for by the US military. In all seriousness, the class is really interesting. Unfortunately, Alfred can’t focus because Mari had told him that her Ex, some douchebag named _Arthur_ was coming to town because of some stupid transfer program.

“Wait…” Alfred had begun slowly, pitifully, “when you say transfers, you… do you mean, like, staying for, like, longer than five minutes?”

Mari had leveled Alfred with a look that both told Alfred ‘ _You can calm down. I’m here, right now, and there’s nothing that can change that.’ and, ‘We are not dating, mon chou. The sex is okay, but we are not dating, so you have no say._ ’

Alfred had spent the rest of the day sulking.

Now Alfred shoves his binders and books into his bag and carelessly throws his bag over his shoulder and straightens up. The thing he had noticed most after boot camp was that he had gained an extra inch or so to his height. It seemed like all that standing at attention and shoulders thrown back had caused Alfred’s spine to gain the aforementioned inch. Alfred, personally, loves it: he had managed to throw off some of the added weight, had grown an inch or so, and the government is paying for his college.

All he had to do was sell his body and soul to be mentally, psychologically, and physically conditioned for war.

Eh, with things waning down overseas, the likelihood that he’ll see war is slim. But, on the bright side, Alfred gets freeee college!

A sharp whistle cuts through Alfred’s thoughts and he turns to find the source the mysterious whistling noise _(Alfred Jones, oh! Alfred Jones, oh!)_. He sees one of his best friends and his favorite adversary making his way towards Alfred, his shaved head glinting beneath the bright sunlight overhead. Alfred stops walking as Emmet sidles up beside him, the familiar grin stretched across his face. Alfred mimics the expression.

“What are you doing tonight?” Em asks. Em’s drawl, at least three times slower than Alfred’s own southern drawl, is slow and warm, like melted honey and Alfred is still somewhat put out that Emmet’s straight. He’s delighted that the guy is dating a fantastic girl like Evie, but still.

Alfred smiles sheepishly, “Mari has a business dinner tonight and I’m invited.”

“Mmhmm,” Emmett answers, definitely sounding amused, despite his dramatic shudder, “Party, yeah? Sounds like fun?”

“Oh, yeah,” Alfred answers flatly, “All the fun. Great fun. I get to meet Mari’s Ex tonight at said party. I get to spend the rest of my night comparing myself to some snobby elitist with some stupid accent.”

Emmett winces sympathetically but his dark green eyes are still amused. “Sucks to be you, yeah?”

“Fuck you,” Alfred grumbles as the two hear a loud honk. Both turn to find the source of the noise and sees Evie, Em’s girlfriend, leaning out the window of some beat up Ford pickup. Both wave at Evie, though Em begins to slowly lope forward with one final wave to Alfred and a reminder to ‘read the fucking chapter! We have a test next week and you know that Braginski’s a hard ass!’

Alfred hums and nods, waving back  to Em before he turns to the car, kissing his girlfriend once on the cheek before walking around the car and sliding in to the passenger seat. Alfred watches as the two leave, somewhat jealous at the complete assurance the two have in each other. Alfred then remembers Mari’s laugh and her smile, her expressions, and her skills and her failures and everything that makes Mari… Mari. Alfred smiles stupidly to himself and then turns and walks back to his own beat-up-shit-car-which-he-loves.

…….

Alfred stares petulantly at his reflection in the mirror, glowering somewhat at the too-made up figure staring back at him. Mari had practically dragged Alfred to the nearest well-to-do men’s clothing store and forced him into every other outfit and then some, ignoring Alfred’s complaints or responding with a simpering, ‘ _mon, chou_ would you not love to feel as good as you look?’ She had then promised him food and Alfred had been sold.

Alfred almost regrets that now as he stands in front of the full-length mirror, pouting. The outfit is well-fitted with a white, long sleeve undershirt and a dark, sleeveless tuxedo. He’s wearing a tie that Mari had said would ‘bring out his eyes.’

The tie is blue. Like, bright fucking blue. The coolest thing about it is the contrast it holds against the black sleeveless tuxedo thing.

Okay, Alfred will admit that he really likes the overall outline of the outfit because Alfred will admit that he is somewhat vain, and dammit he loves the fact that he can finally pull something like this off and all it took was hundreds of hours of military training.

The thing that kind of sucks, though, is that Alfred’s not even buff. He’s just…well aligned, might be the right word? He has a nice pair of shoulders, strong enough that they can carry over a hundred pounds of military supplies, which then taper down into a narrow set of hips. He has muscles, now. And a very light trail of hair that travels from his bellybutton to his waistline. But that was always there.

Alfred leans forward and studies that roundness in his face, the childish-looking flesh that hasn’t faded entirely despite all the fucking effort he put into it.

No fuzz. Not even the tiniest bit.

Alfred huffs and pouts. You would think that with a fucking buzzcut, he’d look a little more mature, but _nooooo_. The fucking glasses don’t even make him look older.

“Are you finished making faces at the reflection, _mon chou_? We must be going.”

Alfred turns at the sound of Mari’s voice and nearly swallows his own tongue. Mari, God bless her, is dressed in a gorgeous, knee length dress that flares out at the waist. The bodice and the skirt are a shade of gold that perfectly extenuates her glowing, well, everything along with light blue designs all up around the dress that match Alfred’s tie. The dress is elegant, but hugs every curve and the color makes her bronze skin practically glow and her hair…

Even with her hair down, curled around her shoulders, Alfred doesn’t want to touch her for fear that he may ruin it somehow. After all, this is _Alfred._ A person who had caused his science classes to evacuate due to a chemical spillover and a small explosion. Four times and once. And a half. Respectively.

Mari, all elegance and grace, saunters over to Alfred and turns so that her back is to him.

“Could you braid my hair, _s’il te plaît_?”

Alfred swallows past the dryness in his throat, like, 3 times and slowly begins braiding, trying to ignore the way his hands shake just by being in close proximity to Mari. Eventually, though, Alfred settles into a pattern and his hands stop shaking. He can remember sitting with his mama and her family, watching the woman braid and sew, talking in a mixture of English and Spanish, while his maman sat next to him and tried to translate so that he wouldn’t feel left out.

Alfred, honestly, never quite understood the taboo of a male knowing how to braid. To him, braiding is creating a pattern, something repetitive to pass the time and keep his hands busy. Alfred can recall the morning when Mari had found out about Alfred’s… hobby? Habit? Well, _thing_. Alfred had wanted to do something so he wouldn’t look like a creep when Mari woke up. So, he’d gone to take a shower and had found a small emergency sewing kit. Alfred had taken the kit, removed the strands of cloth, and had fallen back into the old familiar pattern. An hour later, Mari woke up to the sight of Alfred completing an intricately braided bracelet. The look she had leveled at him upon the discovery demanded an explanation and Alfred had complied.

Now after one final twist, Alfred steps back and watches as Mari studies her own reflection with a critical eye, looking for something that Alfred can’t see. Mari is gorgeous.

Feeling the sudden, indefinable need to kiss her, Alfred steps forward hesitantly until his reflection stands behind Mari’s and waits for Mari to meet his eyes in the mirror. When she finally does, Alfred slowly leans forward, his eyes never leaving Mari’s in case she decides she doesn’t want this, and kisses the barest visible inch of Mari’s shoulder, reveling in the sweet floral scent that wafts past his nose.

Alfred straightens up and makes to leave when Mari turns to face him, reaching for his arm. When Alfred stops, she steps forward, wrapping her arms around his neck whilst standing on her toes. With a dopey grin, Alfred wraps his arms around her waist. Mari drags him down and plants a sweet kiss on his nose, her eyes that soft, that incredible shade of blue that never seems to remain that same color.

Alfred finds himself falling more in… well, fondness with Mari every time he sees her eyes.

“ _Mon cher_ ,” she hums as she slowly, so painfully slowly, kisses his cheek before repeating the gesture on the other cheek.

Mari then falls back on her feet and leans forward to wrap her arms around Alfred’s waist, pulling him close. Alfred, childishly pleased by this turn of events, hugs her back tightly, resting his head atop hers. The two stand like that for almost an entire minute before Mari steps back, all business, and begins asking for her purse, her sweater, her keys and anything else she might need.

Alfred, having yet to leave the spot where the two had just been rooted, stands at attention, watching Mari as she runs to and fro. He perks up when she stops at the door, no longer muttering to herself and holds out her hand. Alfred walks over to her and grabs her hand, loving the feel of her fingers around his.

Before they leave, though, Mari tugs him back, and straightens his tie. She slowly, methodically studies Alfred’s entire outfit, no doubt looking for any imperfections. Finally, she nods approvingly and smiles proudly up at Alfred, causing the boy in question to preen and straighten up. Mari rolls her eyes but grins, patting his cheek.

“You look _beau_ , _mon chou_ ,” she tells him as she flattens his tie.

…….

Okay, this party sucks.

Not only is it full of pretentious snobs shoving their noses in the air and trying to kiss their bosses’ ass(es, as in multiple ass), but Arthur is pretty fucking attractive.

Like, it’s not even fair.

Alfred stands somewhat in the corner, miserably sipping his watered down, disgusting, sparkling wine and watching from a distance as Mari, surrounded by a gaggle of high-end business men and women. And whose there standing by her side, looking like the perfect, high-end, better-than-thou, English asshat? Why, none other than Arthur fucking Kirkland.

Although, Alfred kind of doubts that his middle name is _fucking_. He’s pretty sure that that would be considered child abuse.

ANYWAYS, Arthur stands at Mari’s elbow, politely smiling at whatever it is that some old Dumbledore-meets-21st-century-chic is saying, but the second that Dumbledore turns away, Arthur leans forward and says something that makes Mari laugh, though it’s not the loud, bellyaching laugh that Alfred’s used to. Rather a politer, Downton-Abbey-hand-covering-mouth laugh. Alfred doesn’t miss the look the look on Arthur’s face as he watches Mari: it’s that same infinitely pleased and undeniably fond look he’s been sporting all night since the two crashed the party.

Okay, ‘crashed’ is probably the wrong word. They arrived late, ‘fashionably late’, as Mari had a habit of saying, though the last time Alfred had been _fashionably late_ for anything, he’d gotten his ass handed to him by his senior officer. Mari had scoffed and assured him that there would be no one at the party would yell at him for being late.

Well, they had been fashionably late and, though no one had yelled at him, Alfred hadn’t missed the very pointed looks that he had gotten from the congregation.

 _Ooohh. Mah. GAWD_.

It was like he was in High school and Boot camp all over again and it pretty much sucked.

And then his Royal Majesty ‘I’m-English-hurdy -hur-hur’ Kirkland walked into the room, teasingly berating Mari for the tardiness and completely ignoring Alfred standing there with his face twisted into a dramatically insulted look.

From Arthur swooping in to the present moment, Alfred has more or less been alone, save for the few thirsty men and women no doubt looking for a late night tryst.

Alfred rolls his eyes as he hears another loud laugh and watches as Arthur gracefully rests his hand on Mari’s shoulder blade, both looking like the very picture of some Victorian-age-All-American couple, with their matching(ish) outfits, right down to the gold dress and gold tie. Almost as though they had planned it.

Alfred pouts and throws back the rest of his carbonated drink (sparkling wine sucks) with yet another dramatic roll of his eyes, tempted to drag his phone out of his pocket and have a quick look at it in the hopes that either Kiku or Mattie or Em or Evie or Mel or _someone_ had tried texting him. When Alfred does just that, he finds absolutely no messages.

Nothing. Nilch. Nada.

 _Fuuuck_.

Alfred pouts and shoves it into his pocket and straightens up, wanting to get something, _anything_ else to drink. He wants something alcoholic in question, but with his record and with the fact there are all these fancy-schmancy assholes, getting an alcoholic beverage when he is in fact underage is a huge no.

Fuck the fucking law, he thinks as he transfers the glass to his other hand and pushes himself off the elegantly carved, mahogany banister (who the fuck has a bannister this fucking detailed for a party?) and not-shoves his way through the throng of people. He doesn’t shove because he’s learned to be respectful of large crowds, but he wants to get to the bar and get a drink and these people just. Won’t. _Move_.

Alfred continues to not-shove his way forward, ignoring the grabby hands he feels in the crowd because, let’s be honest, people are weird. So, whilst ignoring the grabby hands, Alfred saunters forward until the crowd kind of thins, which is ironic because it’s a bunch of old people, thrown together, and the bar is practically empty. Which is weird.

Alfred ambles up to the counter and grins, earning a wink from the woman behind the counter as he leans against the counter,

“What’ll it be, dear?” The woman asks. Her hair is done up in a fancy braid and her dark skin practically glows beneath the faint lighting which kind of remind Alfred of constellations across the vast expanse of space. The women, or Angelique as her nametag reads, leans against the other side of the counter. “Well?” She asks, her accent a throaty French one, a lot like Mari, but with something else, something that reminds Alfred of the beach. Her voice is warm and Alfred likes it and when she leans in closer, Alfred spots her hair clip that looks like…

Alfred blinks. “Is that a ‘Supernatural’ clip?” he asks as he leans in closer to get a better look at the clip, a pretty, sparkling marble-looking one. He grins when he sees the Impala with Dean and Sam. “The first season was my favorite,” Alfred tells her as she pushes herself up, seeming to go from ‘flirt’ to ‘possible conversation.’ She smiles and rolls her eyes, earning a laugh from Alfred.

“Okay, fine, the first season has more background, but the other seasons have more emotions,” she tells him as she reaches for a glass and begins cleaning it. “Fans learn more about Sam and Dean and Cas and Crowley and all of them and they become not just characters but _people_ , too.”

Alfred wrinkles his nose, “I preferred the seasons with the monsters in them, to be honest,” he tells her as she begins preparing two glasses. “Okay, _yeah_ , emotions, but I enjoyed learning about Wendigos and the Djinn and Werewolves and Shapeshifters. I’m getting kind of sick at the whole ‘the world is ending, we need to find this and this and this’ trope. It’s like they’re beating a dead horse with a stick.”

Angelique snorts and begins pouring what looks like scotch in one glass. She begins to pour some in the other glass but then she looks up, studies Alfred, and then rolls her eyes and reaches beneath the counter, pulling out a can of Coke. Alfred flashes her a relieved smile and waves,

“Thanks for that, by the way!”

“Anytime, cher,” she tells him as she pours the soda into the glass and slides it over to Alfred. “Anyways, the actors and actresses are some of the greatest gifts to humanity. My girlfriend sits and watches it with me and she loves Sam.

Alfred raises his glass, “Cheers to your girlfriend’s good tastes. I agree, the actors and actresses are great, but the characters are just kind of… Bleh.”

“They’re growing with the series,” Angelique points out as she leans against the bar, cradling her glass in her hands. “I mean, that’s kind of the point of the series, yeah? To watch the characters grow? I mean, Cas started out as a bit of a dick, but he’s now one of my personal favorite characters.”

“But they’ve lost the meaning of the show,” Alfred argues as he leans his forearms against the counter. “It started out as a means for the brothers to develop a legitimate relationship and for fans to learn about different monsters and supernatural creatures. Now they’re trying, repeatedly, to save the world from the apocalypse or Lucifer or Lucifer’s crazy brother, Megatron?”

“Metatron,” Angelique corrects as she throws back her drink, “and these life and death scenarios are what develops the characters and the actors and the stories.”

“Yeah,” Alfred begins as he takes a sip of his drink, “I get what you’re saying, but—“

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

And there goes Alfred’s good time.

Alfred rolls his eyes and throws back the rest of his completely legal coke, catching the slight eye roll from Angelique as she turns and returns to cleaning out one of the glasses. Alfred rises from his seat and turns to meet the man that’s been driving Alfred through all 9 circles of Hell for the thrill of it.

Arthur Fucking Kirkland stands at around Alfred’s height, give or take about an inch, with a mop of gelled back, sandy colored hair and obnoxiously bright, pretty green eyes. The suit he’s wearing emphasizes a lean figure that wouldn’t last a day in Marine Corp training, but fits in perfectly with the sharks and snakes of the business world. Hell, even at this so-called ‘casual’ business dinner setting, the asshole’s dressed to the nine’s and looks ready to kill.

Or, if he was in ‘Supernatural,’ looks ready to barter his way to a soul.

Alfred wants to ignore that little voice in the back of his mind that tells Alfred that if Kirkland was the buyer, Alfred wouldn’t mind selling something.

Alfred then viciously shoves that thought away because he’s…with? Ensconced? _Dating?_ A certain Mari Solace and such a thought about the woman’s _ex-boyfriend_ is a _hell no._

Quite literally, while he’s with anyone, even when he had a steady relationship with his Nintendo DS, any type of _those_ kind of thought was off limits. Which, you know, in itself is kind of hard because people are ridiculously pretty. Like, when they weren’t off being dicks, people were gorgeous. Like, no two people looked exactly the same and had the exact same personality, despite the population being close to 7 billion people strong. Girls and guys were both fucking gorgeous. Hell, Alfred’s last Date Mate had been a non-binary baker and Ollie had been one of the prettiest people Alfred had known. Like, what the fuck?

“Are you even listening to me?” The man suddenly demands and Alfred tilts his head to the side at the question, evidently too lost in thought to actually listen to what the dick had to say. When Alfred doesn’t reply Kirkland rolls his eyes with a disgusted huff, still somehow sounding beautiful, and turns to the bar, ordering a stuffy, “Gin on the rocks.”

Alfred rolls his eyes at the order and leans back against his chair, bracing for the inevitable ‘back off.’ Although, Alfred knows that any final choice or choices lies solely in the hands of Mari. Still, it’s kind of funny watching the asshole down his drink in a single go before leveling what Alfred assumes is a threatening look. Although, given his, well, _training_ and _childhood_ , the look isn’t that bad.

Like, maybe a 7 out of 10. Or, if Alfred wants to be nice, a 7.5 out of ten.

However, Alfred doesn’t want to be nice. This dick’s gettin a C for overall threatening glares.

“Is it your age that makes you entirely unable to focus for more than a minute or is it just your overall lack of Secondary education? Either way, I’m astonished that this- _this_ —“Kirkland waves at Alfred, clearly encompassing all of Alfred in his detailed ‘this’. “Is what Mari replaced me with.”

Alfred blinks.

Granted, there were some things in that sentence that made no sense but the overall tone of the sentence, along with the look on that asshole’s face, makes Alfred dock about 2 points from his threatening-level scale. Asshole is now on the level of a small dog. Probably a Chihuahua.

Okay, wait no. Those things are terrifying. His _abuela’s_ old Chihuahua was terrifying and Alfred had been beyond grateful when that thing ran away and they replaced it with a Golden Retriever.

Okay, Kirkland was on the same level of a two-week old kitten. That’s much better.

Alfred nods, pretending to actually care what this complete stranger has to say and lets his poker face/pout appear. Alfred begins tapping his fingers against the edge of the bar along to some unknown anthem or rhythm in his head. It’s probably the Marine Corp chant.

_From the Halls of Montez~u~u~uma,_

_To the Shores of Tripoli~i~i…_

“I think it’s more the fact that some A-Grade asshole with some major insecurity issues has literally just confronted me about a woman he hasn’t seen in—“Alfred hums, the rhythm in his head still going strong as he pretends to think about the last time Asshole Kirkland and Mari had seen each other—“what, like, five years or so? Also,” Alfred raises his hand, a proud smile on his face, “I’m currently studying Aerospace Engineering at M.I.T, paid for by the United State, and I’m currently one hell of a student so,” Alfred mockingly salutes the man, wishing he had a glass so that the action would be more dramatic.

_We fight our country’s battles;_

_In the air, on land, and sea…_

“Ah, yes,” Arthur drawls, eyes narrowing into slits as he studies Alfred closer, eyes raking up and down Alfred, no doubt either A) checking him out or B) sizing him up. Either way, Alfred’s seen himself in the Marine Corp uniform and knows he looks kick-ass. “Marianne told me that you were a… what is it you’re called? A, ah, Jarhead? Is that the proper word?”

Arthur’s tone is dry enough that Alfred can pick up on the faint hints of either cynicism or condescending, both of which rub Alfred the wrong way. Alfred wrinkles his nose, unaware of how his emotions plainly color his countenance.

“The preferred title is Private First Class Jones of the United States Marine Corp,” Alfred informs the man hotly as he stands up straighter. His fingers still bounce against the smooth wood surface of the bar to that same melody.

_First to fight for right and Fre~e~edom_

_And to keep our honor clean._

_We are proud to claim the ti~i~itle_

_Of United States Marine._

Asshole Kirkland raises one of the tiny squirrels that have to be gorilla glued to his forehead, looking far from impressed. Alfred could care less what the dickhead thinks about him. “That is… quite a title you have there, lad.”

Lad. Boy. Kid. All of the names mean pretty much the same thing and Alfred is more insulted by this than practically anything else this guy’s said because, of course, the implication is, _you’re out of your league, boy_. Fuck him. Alfred’s up and joined the Marine Corp at the age of 18 and this asshole probably inherited a startup business from mommy and daddy. Alfred’s fingers continue their beating.

_Our flag’s unfurled to every breeze_

_From dawn to setting su~u~n._

_We have fought in every clime and place_

_Where we could take a gun._

“Oh, yeah,” Alfred hums, “Yep. It’s a cool title that I, you know, earned. What’s your title? Outta curiosity and all that. After all, what would a, ah, Jarhead—“Alfred allows himself a fake laugh as he continues—“know about the intricacies of, well, what is it you do?”

Arthur returns Alfred’s smile with a polite, cold smile in turn. “I am the CEO of a rather large publishing company. ‘Lionsguard Literature’. I don’t suppose someone as, ah, _busy_ as you would recognize the name.”

Alfred hums, his fingers still _tap-tapping_ , while trying to hide his surprise.

Honestly, yes. Alfred _has_ heard of ‘Lionsguard Literature’. Many of the required books for his college classes (at least, all the classes that he’s _had_ to take) have the familiar rearing lion on a gold background that marks the books or textbooks or novels or playwrights as being published by ‘Lionsguard Literature.’ In fact, a good portion of the books that have been published by ‘Lionsguard Literature’ have been elected for some Pulitzer prize or another. Those books weren’t messing around. Hell, Alfred still has one or two of the novels published by ‘Lionsguard’ thrown around the confines of his room that he’s kept willingly for his own enjoyment.

  _In the snows of far-off Northern lands_

_And in sunny tropic sce~e~enes._

_You will find us always on the job_

_The United States Mari~i~ines_.

Alfred honestly tries to come up with a good response to that, almost anything, but for a split second that insecure, pizza-face, overweight, bespectacled, nerdy 11th grader pops into Alfred’s mind, telling Alfred that of course, this guy is _so_ much better than him and that Alfred has nothing whatsoever to offer Mari and that this guy would no doubt be _so_ much better and—

Alfred promptly tells the kid to shut-up.

_Here’s health to you and to our Corps_

_Which we are proud to se~e~erve._

_In many a strife we’ve fought for life_

_And never lost our n~e~e~rve_

Alfred, seeing the asshole’s sneer growing somewhat in the corners of his lips, straightens up to his full height, showing off his perfected posture and that extra inch or two that he’s fucking _earned_ from months of training in practically every weather condition (feeling a surge of victory as Asshole Kirkland’s squirrels twitch in, no doubt, envy because Alfred now stands in inch over him) and leans towards the man, allowing a true smile to form.

He feels another surge of victory at the asshole’s irritated downturned lip in response to Alfred’s smile.

“I’m not about to start waging war for Mari because that would be like fighting for a spit of land or something, and we’re talkin about a human being here,” Alfred tells the man before leaning in a little, watching Kirkland’s expression shift as Alfred steps into his comfort zone. Alfred’s comfort zone bubble-thing kind of popped a while ago. Turns out having a senior officer standing and screaming into your face kills any instinctual feeling of a personal space bubble. “ _Buut_ , you better be damn well ready to stand your ground, ‘cause I ain’t going nowhere.”

“Your grammar is atrocious,” Kirkland snaps, standing up straighter as well and holding his ground surprisingly well. “I was a fool once, to let Marianne get away, but rest assured I _won’t_ make that mistake again. It would be more prudent— _safer_ , if you will—for you to take whatever childish infatuation you have and just walk away right now.”

Alfred wrinkles his nose, “Your… perfume? Spritz? Cologne! That’s the word I was lookin for. Your cologne smells great.” The momentary confusion is one of the funniest things Alfred’s seen all night but he continues, “A wise man once said, ‘if you’re livin safely, you ain’t livin at all.’ I ain’t walkin away now because some asshole’s realized that he’s made a mistake.”

Kirkland’s gaze goes from cold to subzero artic and he glares Alfred down… or up. Kirkland has to look up to glare at Alfred. “I suppose that’s the way it is, then, _boy_.”

“I guess it is, old man,” Alfred retorts as he steps back to lean against the counter. He glances over at and Angelique and calls out, “have a good night, Angelique!”

Angelique laughs and nods, waving the cleaning rag in Alfred’s direction, “My friend’s call me, Chell, cher,” An—sorry, Chell calls, pronouncing the nickname like ‘shell’.

Alfred grins and straightens up, turning to face Chell and dramatically bowing at her with one hand against the small of his back, the other curved around his waist, and his feet toe-to-heel. The display earns Alfred a laugh from Chell.

Alfred turns to face Arthur who’s still there and still studying Alfred like some bug under the microscope. The taller man beams at Arthur and, wanting to throw him off kilter even more, steps forward and envelopes Kirkland in a hug. Kirkland stiffens and Alfred knows he’s succeeded and has to stifle a giggle. In the most pretentious voice manageable, Alfred hums and says with accent and all, “It was simply _smashing_ to meet’choo, old chap!”

Alfred jumps back when he feels Kirkland tense up as though bracing himself to punch Alfred. The taller blonde notes the attractive (erm… he means _unattractive_ ) scowl that colors the shorter man’s face and beams, tilting his head to the side. If his hair was longer, then parts would fall into his eyes, giving Alfred the appearance of an innocent child, something Alfred hasn’t been able to do since he was a, well, _child_.

Kirkland begins to bluster,

“I, you, _how dare you—“_

“Nice shoelaces, by the way,” is Alfred’s parting shot. Kirkland is still blustering behind him and Alfred walks around the man, noting out of the very corner of his eye that Kirkland actually glances down at his shoes.

Victory!

Alfred wanders through the crowd, trying to spot anyone he knows.

“Alfred!” A familiar voice calls and Alfred turns his head to spot Mari near the other side of the room, watching him expectantly, with her eyes telling him to move his ass over there.

With an easy grin, Alfred flows through the crowd and makes it to the other side, latching onto Mari’s side without even touching her. Mari raises a surprised eyebrow at the usually exuberant man’s sudden concern for personal space, but then curls one of her arms around Alfred’s elbow and leans into his side, causing a waft of really, really nice-smelling perfume to envelope Alfred.

“Monsieur, Madam, this is Alfred.”

“Ah!” A particularly… jolly-looking man exclaims, the word sounding like an excited declaration and the release of breath at the same time. It even has a touch of… “ _This_ is the boy you were talkin all night about!”

Alfred winces at the word ‘boy’ but gladly accepts that his earlier assumption of ‘southern accent’ was proven correct. Hell, the accent’s even one of those really posh ones that tell people that ‘I was born into a rich, southern background and can trace my family line back all the way to before the Revolution!’

It takes Alfred a minute after this revelation to realize that, _fuck_. They can all trace their ancestry back generations upon generations. Alfred’s biological mother is an immigrant from the country of Haiti, his dad’s some poor dead white chap from South Carolina, and his _mama’s_ family hails from Argentina. Alfred’s like that scrappy pup that no one expects anything exceptional from, all because he comes from a socioeconomic background that had never kissed anyone’s ass. Not to mention that growing up, and even now, he’s seen as too light to be considered black and too dark to be considered white. He’s inherited his wheat blonde hair, too blue eyes, and fucking freckles during the winter time from his dear dead dad. Curly hair, well-defined bone structure (when it wasn’t covered by fucking baby fat) to his calloused hands thin fingers and a somewhat wide palm all the way down to a nicely-arched foot, from his mother. From the both of them, what his mother called _honey brown_ skin during the summertime and what his _abuela_ had called _Hazel Fay._

Which is apparently a flower and _not_ a type of chocolate which had really disappointed Alfred there for a while.

What Alfred is trying to get at as he watches the elites complain loudly about their broken pool pipes and their son’s classes at Yale, is _what the fuck is he even doing here?_ He has, like, four classes that he needs to study for, homework that needs to be done, and a shit ton of other things that need to happen. What is he, a 19-year-old, doing he—

At his side, Mari laughs and seems to drag Alfred even closer, leaning more against him and Alfred once again catches a whiff of something that smells amazing. He hesitantly wraps an arm around Mari’s shoulder, stiff and uncertain if she wants this type of display in front of people, but then she leans back against his arm and laughs at something Mr. Virginian says and Alfred’s head is buzzing— _she’s letting me touch her ohmygod we’re in public and she’s letting me touch her ajhkfsjdnap_ —and he’s grinning and not really paying attention and—

“There you are, Arthur!” Mari purrs, interrupting Mr. Virginia in favor a flashing a truly dazzling smile at Kirkland as he appears, looking well-kept and friendly, holding two drinks in his hand. He levels a cold look at Alfred, a look that’s gone nearly as soon as it appears, and offers a smile that is also quite dazzling at Mari as he offers Mari one of the drinks.

“Sorry about the wait,” he says as Mari takes the drink. Arthur notes the arm around her shoulder and quickly covers his less-than-pleased look. “The bartender was moving at a pace akin to a snail. Couldn’t be helped, I suppose.”

“I think the bartender is doing a great job,” Alfred interrupts before Mr. Virginia can chime in with some agreement or another. Alfred tries to cool the heat in his voice. “I mean, given the size and scope of the party, being slow is a given, right? Rather be slow and right than quick and wrong.”

“Hear, hear!” Mr. and Mrs. Virginia declare as they and those around them raise their glasses in a salute. At his side, Mari raises an eyebrow at Alfred and Arthur continues to level a glare-that-is-not-a-glare at Alfred.

“Who is this?” Arthur asks at the same time that Mari asks, “Since when have you been knowledgeable about the goings on of a bar?”

Alfred shrugs sheepishly at Mari’s question and he grins widely at Arthur. Alfred shifts slightly awkwardly in an effort to keep his contact with Mari, while shaking the asshole’s hand.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Alfred lies whilst Arthur studies his hand like one would a particularly nasty bug. Finally, though, after realizing that not shaking Alfred’s hand would be considered rude, Arthur grasps Alfred’s hand tightly, squeezing it for all he’s worth.

Neither break eye contact.

“No,” Arthur answers, “I don’t suppose we have. My name is Arthur Kirkland. You are….”

“Private First Class Jones of the United States Marine Corp,” Alfred answers, not hesitating and still smiling. Around him, the announcement gets a round of cheers from some of those assembled.

Arthur drops his hand, cradling his drink between his cold palms.

“Well done, son,” Mr. Virginia declares jovially, reaching out and shaking Alfred’s hand. Alfred bites down a flat _I’m not your son and please refrain from ever saying that_ in favor of turning to Mari, who’s frowning down at the glass in her hand and spinning the glass in a faint circle.

Arthur notices this as well, “Is everything alright, Marianne?” He asks, stepping forward.

“This wine,” Mari answers while still twirling the glass in her hand. “It does not taste very good.”

“I ordered a glass of Merlot,” Arthur states whilst frowning. He glances down at his own glass and takes a sip. He then proceeds to wrinkle his nose in obvious distaste. Alfred, despite himself, perks up and asks curiously,

“What’s up with it?”

“It is weak,” Mari answers when Arthur continues to frown down at his drink. “It does not possess the… character, I suppose, that one associates with Merlot.”

“It tastes like something that one would buy at a convenience store,” Arthur answers flatly as he waves a waiter over. When the man appears, Arthur and Mari hand the lower-class wine to him in exchange for another drink.

In his pocket, Alfred’s cell buzzes, indicating a text. When Alfred answers, he sees a text from Emmet, warning him about a surprise Inspection that would be held the next day. Alfred, having gotten very used to Emmet’s uncanny ability to guess when these things were, frowns down at his screen and bites his lower lip. He doesn’t want to leave, but he really doesn’t have a choice.

Mari notes his problem and leans forward to ask the obvious question of, “What’s the matter?”

“I have to turn in early,” Alfred mutters back whilst shoving his phone in his pocket. At his side, Mari hums and nods and Alfred expects her to wish him good night and to turn back to her friends, but she surprises Alfred by bidding all those around them good night and tugging Alfred to the door.

The two are at the fucking door frame when Arthur stops them. Well, stops _Mari_. He completely ignores Alfred.

“Are you doing anything this weekend?” Arthur asks as he continues to ignore the Marine Corp officer standing _right next_ to Mari who looks nothing less than amused.

“Alfred has invited me to an, ‘ow you say, _football game_ and I am most curious to see one.”

Arthur casts Alfred an indecipherable look as though he’s weighing the pros and cons of something before he forces a grin, something that, to Alfred, looks more painful than when his Danish friend stepped on a Lego. “I hate to invite myself along—terribly rude, might I say—but seeing as this is my first weekend in this country, would it be too terribly inconveniencing for me to join you two? I happen to like a good football match.”

“I do not think—“ Mari begins but Alfred intervenes with his own sunny smile.

“Sure!” He crows, his loud voice garnering the attention of those around them. “The more the merrier, right? Heading to a football match is a great way to make friends, isn’t it? In fact, to make things easier, we can exchange numbers and I can send you the place to meet-up at!”

Kirkland, understandably, looks confused, suspicious, and surprised, but agrees. He reaches for his phone and Alfred almost rolls his eyes when he sees that it’s the latest IPhone model. Alfred pulls out his own flip phone and the two exchange numbers.

Arthur glances over at Mari and smiles softly as he shoves his phone back into his pocket, “I’m assuming that you still don’t carry around a phone, am I correct?”

Mari wrinkles her nose imperiously and waves a hand, as though warding off some pesky fly. “Bah. Cell phones are bulky and loud and detract from the beautiful world around us. If someone really wants to get in touch with me, they will find a way.”

Arthur looks ready to say something but is cut off by a loud call of “Arthur!” from someone across the room. Arthur casts a stink eye over his shoulder before turning to face Mari, his sweet smile from before shining.

“It truly was good seeing you again, Marianne,” he says warmly as he leans down for a hug. Alfred pouts and tries to ignore the elbow to his forearm that Kirkland unapologetically doles out. When the hug is finally over, Mari stands on her toes and the two kiss each other on the cheeks, a European tradition that Alfred’s seen too often to be truly fired up about it.

When Kirkland steps back he flashes Alfred a cold look and the sweet smile vanishes, replaced with a cooler, more formal smile, “It was good meeting you,” Kirkland lies as his arms stay stiffly at his side. Alfred smiles and offers a mocking salute.

“You too, Mr. Kirkland!” Alfred chirps.

Kirkland nods and, looking relunctant, turns to leave the duo in favor of meeting with the person that called his name. He’s nearly disappeared when Alfred cups his hand around his mouth and shouts, practically across the room, “See ya at the _football match_ , Artie!”   

With that, Mari and Alfred turn tail and leave, Alfred humming,

_If the Army and the Na~a~avy._

_Ever look on Heaven’s scenes;_

_They will find the streets are gua~a~rded._

_But United States Marines._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! I know I really shouldn't be writing this, especially since I have so many stories already in need of updates, but the idea came to me and I'm running with it. I'm not sure if this will be stand alone or, if not, when the next chapter will be up, so be warned. 
> 
> I also want to say thank you to the awesome Fire_Bear for beta-ing this story. You're fantastic and I'm sorry if I sounded like a creeper when asking for your help, but thank you!


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